


until the water takes me

by mywholecry



Category: Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner
Genre: M/M, Stream of Consciousness, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-02
Updated: 2011-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 01:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywholecry/pseuds/mywholecry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“It’s not your fault,” Shreve jokes, later, and presses fingers against the inside of my arm, “that you’re a proper southern lady.”</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	until the water takes me

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for veiled references to Quentin's suicide.

I know that it’s better– –because Shreve, Shreve doesn’t let things bother him, like this. He knows how to put on masks and walk away while I blush and blush, while I think of home and think of shame. They don’t matter, he says. Late at night, cold nights in my room where the moon barely shows through the clouds and the window. _The moon is beautiful_ , _Caddy would yell, never whisper, white arms spread wide for the greedy dark sky. The moon is always full in Mississippi_. Fuck them, Shreve says, the other boys, the Harvard boys. They don’t matter. And I take his words on the promise of his lips, and I repeat them like a smooth stone hymn. Fuck them, fuck them, _fuck_ – 

"It’s not your fault," Shreve jokes, later, and presses fingers against the inside of my arm, "that you’re a proper southern lady." And I smiled wry and twisted, moved my hand away on the sheets, lifted it into the air. I wanted to say something, because didn’t I come from a long line of proper southern ladies, but I think and think and turn my head away. __is caddy a lady, is she a lady. _You. it’s you that’s beautiful. Why can’t i make you see what you’re worth._ Lips on the tips of my fingers, and I don’t turn away, the way I do sometimes. Let them talk. I feel less empty now. The water doesn’t run through my skin. _Our feet are rough from our young years on rock and dirt. I don’t feel the pain, if there is any pain._ You weren’t there when I was growing up, and I think that helps. If I remembered you there, it wouldn’t be right to do this. I don’t know how to tell you, tell you that when I fall asleep close by it’s mostly you, before I wake. It’s not them until I am alone, it is not home until I can pretend I am there. _You fall asleep on the grass, in sleep, and you’re not her. A pin through your stomach and a fire in your mouth. Your arms are longer, against green black, one hand curled behind your head._

I touch you, in sleep. _I stay closer, and the moths find rest in the curve of your bare hipbone._ Like I should now, when I cannot find the words to say what you do to me, what you do when you don’t realize. Like I should instead of lingering.

"Delicate," Shreve whispers, softly, not quite mocking. "i think that’s it, hmm." He doesn’t have to hesitate with me. I lean into a gesture, raising my head to accept a sharp, wet kiss, a hand on my collarbone.

 _Cold water, river water, sliding on the sun white rocks_.

He arches his body over mine.

 _My toes on the edge, waiting_. 


End file.
